Sit With Me
by AnnieAnnProps
Summary: (2/3 of the "With Me" series) Time has passed allowing for more questions than answers. Who am I to you? Does the answer really matter?


I LIVE!  
This cropped up after i tried to write a drabble for the femslash February prompt "asleep" and well...here we are. There's no sleep, just this thing I'm rather fond of. really, it echos a lot of the thoughts i have fore myself.

Loosely based in At the Seams universe but just a spinoff, a possibility, another life, another universe. Cheers.

* * *

It's arid, dusty, a tickling that makes Widow want to cough her lungs out.

She finds the blurry, red figure through the walls of an abandoned apartment complex, three walls she muses judging by the distortion of the silhouette. The mission is over and done with both sides out of the now quiet town in the middle of the desert. There is nothing for either of them here but a playing field for their brief game of death.

Really, there isn't anything for Widow here either, and yet here she is; staring and wondering why the strike commander has yet to leave.

It is curiosity, she tells herself, that leads her to rappel off her spot; from roof top to roof top until she lands heavily on top of the complex. Through the access hatch, rifle in hand still warm from the fight and the air.

Step by step

Down, drowning, disconcerting

She fights against the trembles, against the still new thing writhing in her chest.

Has it really been that long? It hasn't concerned her before and yet now it's all she can think about as she draws closer and closer. The concept of time lost to the everyday grind of life and the fight to survive.

Widow has a little apartment now, a secret bank account Gerard and her once shared, and the title of unofficial advisor at a small dance studio. A life...or at least the start of one.

And yet she is here, standing outside a door that sits cracked open with the silence as deafening as the pounding in her chest. A quick glance of her visor shows Fareeha seated beside a pile of her still warm armor. The woman is looking her way as if she shares the ability to see through walls.

Why doesn't she stir or arm herself? Widow made no effort to mask her footsteps, _foolish,_ especially when she has a 'kill on sight' order nailed to her head.

So why? Why is she or even _either_ of them still here?

A question she is far too stubborn to ask, an answer she is too scared to hear.

Perhaps for closure.

"Widow." Fareeha speaks, her voice cutting through the white noise of Widow's mind.

It makes her want to run.

But she steps forward like an automated machine with a disgusting tightness in her throat. It would be best to leave well enough alone, too deep, too far; just like what had gotten into this entire mess a lifetime ago.

Two lifetimes ago

 _Her softness will be her downfall._

There is no cliché creaking of rusty hinges or the explosive triggering of a trap. Just silence as the door yields to her pressing fingers and eases open. The sun steams into the dim hallway; a living room, furnished enough to make it believable that it had once been someone's home, decrepit enough to make her believe that that someone stopped coming home years ago.

She sits, as if it is her home, her couch on which she lounges upon facing a blank wall where a holoscreen would have sat. There is a moment of apprehension in her face until she recognizes Widow and it slowly melts away into something akin to relief, to fondness, to sympathy backlit by unresolved bitterness.

Fareeha tries not to let it show, Widow is rather skilled at seeing through her masks even after all this time. A smile tug at the corners of Fareeha's lips come at the sight of Widow's confusion.

Ah yes, a reaction, it's something

"Hello," she begins, watching as Widow slowly steps into the room and instantly noticing how jerky her moments are. "Are you-"

"You are looking to get yourself killed staying alone here." Widow interrupts with a mixture of concern and distaste; distaste for Fareeha's stupidity or perhaps for the fact that Widow actually cares.

They both know the question that Widow wants to ask, undoubtedly the same question Fareeha wishes to ask her.

When Widow steps close enough, Fareeha can finally see why her movements are so. The metal of prosthetics is discolored, dented, and mottled with a distinct lack of upkeep. Her chest twists in pity; from experience, she knows how much discomfort Widow must be in.

"Sit with me."

Widow regards her request for a moment; _request_ , not a command. Fareeha's armor is off and Widow no longer wears a uniform; only her old equipment smuggled out specially for her by a "friend". Her eyes flick to the empty spot on the couch.

A handful of breaths. This should not be a hard decision, should not even be a choice.

An instinct.

She grits her teeth; these thoughts and values are not her own but of the two conditionings she has had to bear through. She just…She just doesn't know anymore.

Anything for a moment of repose.

Widows slides down as gently as her creaking knees will allow. Nothing on her face indicates the deep ache she feels in her legs or the blasted "thing" in her chest she is still getting used to. The nameless stranger of an emotion that sinks its bloody little claws into her heart when she looks at Fareeha.

The question swirls in her head, an echo, something begging to be answered.

 _Why?_

Why everything?

And why does it even matter?

To be here with the leader of an organization that wants her dead when moments ago Widow was aiding them against another organization that wants her dead; or at least brainwashed back to their side again. Perhaps it has come to the point that so many people want her dead that Widow has lost the will to care.

But not _her,_ they all want to kill Widowmaker and she is no longer Widowmaker: that is what Angela kept drilling into her head. She is better now, a new person.

How does she let go of an identity she had lived for so many years?

Tired. So tired. Widow doesn't realize that she has sunken into the soft cushions of the couch with her eyes drifting closed until her neck snaps back to catch her drooping head. A soft, embarrassing gasp scampers out of her throat. She tries to stand only to realize the lack of cooperation of her legs.

Panic and anger: not again.

Two options; she could pretend as if she remains seated by free will, or she could admit to Fareeha that she needed help.

 _Bad knees_ she told the director of the dance studio.

Curse her stubbornness, curse her face being on every watch list and the endless manhunts from city to city. Curse how hard it has become to pull the trigger and watch a light be snuffed out. She'll never admit it to herself or to anyone, but curse all this fighting to hell.

Perhaps she'll give in this time, settle into the couch out of 'free will' and watch the setting sun paint masterpieces on the wall.

A time for peace.

"You need help." Clear as day as she expects Fareeha to speak, not a question, just a statement of fact. Of course she would notice and of course Fareeha would be so inclined to speak up about it.

It brings about a round of annoyance and Widow's biting tongue.

"I'm fine." She replies and yet she cannot move her legs to prove her point.

 _Walk with me_

Dreadfully ironic.

"Disconnect them, I always carry my kit with me." Fareeha says, already leaning over and rummaging through the pile of her armor. It's always a choice, yes, but an encouraged one.

Curse Fareeha and her awkward compassion. It's like a game of chicken as Widow removes her left calf per Fareeha's request and the silence passes; a space where words are anticipated but not said.

 _How have you been?_

The sorry state of Widow's prosthetics tells part of her story. The metal that replaces half of Fareeha's face are dog eared pages that Widow will revisit when she finds the courage to ask.

 _Why are you here?_

Fareeha's code doesn't let her ignore a call for help. Widow…doesn't have the same code but is here all the same.

It becomes painfully obvious with Fareeha's fiddling that Widow's leg is a model she isn't well versed in. With a huff halfway through exasperation and fondness, _fondness,_ Widow's fingers guide Fareeha to a hidden latch. One flick and the joint springs open to a mess of sand and grime.

Fareeha glances up perhaps hoping to see something on Widow's face. Perhaps she is hoping for too much.

But it's there, in the light of the setting sun. Maybe, just maybe. Or maybe it is just wistful thinking as Widows stares back at her for a moment before looking down at the task at hand. A smile that's barely there; a fugitive that the law begrudgingly lets slip through the cracks.

 _What do I mean you?_

An enemy, an ally

An asset, a liability

A stranger, a friend

Someone…

 _Am I someone to you?_

Methodically, Fareeha cleans and does what she can with the supplies and knowledge she has. In quiet words, the share different rituals; the greasing of both the chamber and the bearings or just the chamber? How Talon has taught Widow versus what Overwatch and Helix has taught Fareeha.

In the end, they aren't that much different.

Until the sun has set and Fareeha flips on the lights that shouldn't work. More question of what this place is and _why._ Widow can't help but scoff at herself for such absurd and pointless inquiries.

When the task is done Fareeha helps Widows slot the legs back into place. She stands and stretches a hand out for Widow; the harshness of the ceiling light overshadows the warmth in Fareeha's one human eye.

The connection point no longer grind with sand; it's now smooth, comfortable and elicits a contented sigh from Widow's throat. There it is again, those thoughts she once embraced, now she is forced to endure.

A horrible person does not deserve to be comfortable.

No, no, not guilt. She remembers her sessions with Angela and use them as torches to ward off the impeding darkness. A _better_ person, a _fixed_ person. If anything, she refuses to show such weakness in front of Fareeha.

But conditioning is just a suggestion, strong or not, the rest is her own choices…no….the rest is just messy.

So messy.

Is there such a thing as conditioned freewill?

"Can you stand?" Fareeha asks her after Widow spends one too many seconds silent in contemplation.

 _Stand for what? Could stand for a trip to the pub, yeah._ Comes the snarky remark in her mind, perhaps residual humor from all the time she spent with Lena. It even comes across in her disgustingly cheerful voice.

 _Who is Lena to Widow?_

A stepping stone, a confidant, a question that Widow will continue to push to another day.

Instead, she takes the hand that is warm and humming with the machinery hidden beneath synthetic skin. Why does Widows hold her breath as Fareeha pulls her to her feet? Why does it feel as though her heart is being pulled along for the ride?

When she can barely pull air past it as it lodges itself into her throat.

When they stand so close, face to face, with Widow steady on her feet. _Steady,_ as steady as she lets herself believe, but it feels like a tugging, falling, forward and a loss of balance.

Amelie knows this feeling all too well.

And Widow…

Fareeha's lips move, a question she identifies not by the words but by her tone and expectant look for an answer. A slingshot back to a lifetime ago; the room and Gerard's face so close to hers.

Dangerous, daunting, damning

And yet

Widow gives in just like Amelie did a lifetime ago, two lifetimes ago. She leans forward and hesitates with just a breath between them. Their eyes searching each other, so cloudy, so full of questions that none of them want to hear the answers to.

A choice, yes, Widows extends the same courtesy that Fareeha gives her.

So soft, so uncharacteristic to both of them.

Fareeha closes the last centimeter, the first touch of their lips tries to tear Widow's heart, a heart that scares her with just how much it can hurt, from her throat.

Wordless, breathless, perhaps emotionless

 _What do I mean to you?_

The answer is there, encrypted behind the mess of pride, denial, and life.

Oh how all of this makes Widow want to pull away and run like the coward she knows she is. Distance is her sanctuary. And yet she doesn't, and yet she absentmindedly grazes the warm, synthetic skin of Fareeha's face and let's herself wonder.

Another life, another universe

And yet they are here.

And one of them, or perhaps both of them, lean back in.

The answer to "Why" is "I don't know".

For now, that is enough.


End file.
